Chapter 7
Carter only gets about halfway to Branwick before the road is blocked by emergency vehicles and a blank-faced campus cop directing traffic to turn around.
My bare foot bounces the floor mat in restless agitation I can’t contain.
I need to find Chessa. I can picture her so clearly, lying on the pine-needle-strewn running trail, eyes staring up vacantly toward the sky, ice collecting in her hair and bouncing off her glasses.
Her blood seeps out, forming steaming pools around her lifeless body.
Forget this. I push the car door open, and a blast of icy air slices through the warmth of the car against my bare skin, reminding me that I am still barefoot and wearing damp sleep shorts. Also, the storm seems to have intensified in the short time we’ve been driving.
Carter’s hand snags the back of my—his—sweater, stopping me from exiting.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
I twist around in my seat toward Carter, forcing him to let go.
“One of my friends was murdered this morning and left like a pile of garbage under my window. Chessa went for an early morning run, alone, and I haven’t seen her since.
So maybe it’s not logical to you, but I need to make sure she’s okay.
” He doesn’t understand the danger. He can’t.
But I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.
In my head, the sleet on Chessa’s cooling body has stopped melting and started to form a thin shroud of white ice.
Carter’s expression softens. “I’m not suggesting that you shouldn’t look for her, just not on foot. Barefoot.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “Chessa could be anywhere. The union, the library, they might have even opened up one of the academic buildings to get everyone out of the cold.”
I throw my hands up. “What’s your plan?”
He pulls his phone from its charging cubby in the center console—the white charging cord neatly threaded in place—and holds it up. “Try calling her?” His raised eyebrows suggest that this very basic solution is something I should have thought of myself. And well, yeah, but …
Shit. Frustration and preemptive embarrassment flood my face with painful heat. “I can’t,” I say through clenched teeth.
He frowns. “Does she not take her phone with her? I feel like I’ve seen her running and she always—”
“I don’t know her number.” The words come out faster and louder than I mean them to, the verbal equivalent of tearing off the bandage. “Or Daan’s either, before you ask.”
The masochistic part of me watches Carter, waiting. It only takes a second or two for realization to dawn. His expression tightens, and his gaze veers away from mine.
Oh God. I know that look. “You should know, though, that’s only because Chessa and Daan are saved in my phone. They’re an actual part of my life, people I can be seen with in public, who won’t pretend not to know me when I speak to them.”
To be fair, I understood why he did that, three months ago at the Welcome Back departmental event for all the psych students and faculty.
It was better that Carter and I didn’t appear too cozy or familiar with each other.
But I don’t think “Hello” would have been pushing the envelope too much. Or even a nod of acknowledgement.
His full mouth compresses into a thin line, and I wait for the explanation. Again.
“Close the door, put your seat belt back on,” he says instead, surprising me.
“What, why?” I ask.
“I’m taking you to Daan’s. I’m assuming his phone has Chessa’s number in it?” Carter asks in a dry tone. He gives me a pointed look.
It does. Even better, Daan’s part of our location-sharing group. And knowing Daan, he’ll likely still be asleep in his room at the Foreign Language House, hopefully alone, at this hour.
It’s the smart move, the practical one, though the thought of immediate action—albeit stupid action—is still somewhat tempting.
I nod curtly and close the door, feeling a muddy mix of embarrassment, relief, and, strangely, more guilt. It takes me a second to figure out why: I’d assumed the worst of Carter. Again. And, in the process, hurt him. Possibly.
Then again, he’s given me plenty of reason to do exactly that.
Carter turns the car around and works his way through central campus, around the blockade by Branwick. The drive to the Foreign Language House is usually only about five minutes—the road bends and curves around buildings, adding precious extra seconds. But I will time—and Carter—to go faster.
It’s strange, after so many years of sensing absolutely no magic within the confines of Beecher, I can feel the remains of it now. It’s like Lennie’s death woke something up, and it’s twanging now like the exposed root of a tooth.
Once, when I was really little, my mom took me to meet her parents in southern Illinois.
My grandfather was a farmer of some type—I was too young to pay attention to many of the details.
But I remember him showing me the wire fence surrounding an enclosure and how if you banged on it with a stick it would send the vibrations and noise all the way down the line.
That’s what this reminds me of.
The sensation is strong by Branwick, as we cut back around by the back side of it. I make myself look to see if I can pick anyone out of the watching crowd, someone who screams, “NOT FULLY HUMAN.” But it’s just faces, blurred behind the moisture and windshield wipers.
I can still detect the magic, though, a silvery thread of jarring wrongness, even as we’re making the turn onto Old Campus, past the cemetery. A small murder of crows huddles on the lone barren tree within the confines of the wrought iron fence.
I grimace. More of them. That’s not good.
Their presence is not just atmospheric or weirdly prescient.
Crows have their role in mythology and stories as harbingers of doom or death, I think, because they have evolved to detect magic from the Old Ones on some level.
They’re scavengers. Knowing when something is dead nearby benefits them.
How many are perched on the running trail, eager, intelligent eyes glinting as they stare down at the blood and innards …
Stop, stop. I close my eyes and press my knuckles into the lids, making lights and fireworks explode in the darkness.
“Are you okay?” Carter asks.
I lower my hands and open my eyes. “Mmhmm.”
He gives me a skeptical look but says nothing more, and then we’re pulling up in front of the house.
The Foreign Language House is a two-story brown split-level with yellow shutters and a matching sign in the front yard declaring its identity. It’s ugly and old and I’ve never seen a more welcome sight.
I’m out of the car and bolting up the crumbling front sidewalk to the concrete porch before Carter has the car fully stopped.
I raise my fist and bang on the brown door.
But there’s no response, except what sounds like a movie, distant voices shouting and the chug-chug-chug of mechanized gunfire. One of Daan’s housemates is obsessed with action movies.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter and pound on the door again. “Wake up!”
This time, the rapid clomp of footsteps coming down the interior stair sounds through the door.
I back up slightly, prepared to face off with a pissed-off, half-asleep Der Student.
But the door flies open, revealing a sleep-rumpled Daan still in his red plaid pajama pants and matching Netherlands flag T-shirt. My Christmas gift to him last year. Strain shows, though, in the deep crease in his forehead.
Relief washes over his face, and he reaches out, yanking me into his shoulder. “Godzijdank,” he murmurs before releasing me. “We were so worried that you—”
We. Hope sparks in me. “Is Chessa—”
I catch just a glimpse of neon pink before Chessa shoves past Daan to tackle me, arms thrown around my neck.
Oh, thank God.
Her weight and enthusiasm send me stumbling back off the porch step, and I knock into Carter coming up behind me. He catches me with a grunt, hands gripping my upper arms, keeping all of us from toppling over.
Chessa lets go and pulls back to look at me. “I called the police station, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Of course not. I could see Morales wanting to keep every detail locked down, even if it upped Chessa’s worry. Maybe even because of that.
“Please tell me the only words out of your mouth were, ‘I want a lawyer.’” Chessa’s glasses are smudged, and her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, but she still manages to give me a stern look.
“There was nothing to say. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Right. I search Chessa’s features, her pristine running jacket and leggings, no hint of blood or harm.
I still can’t believe she’s here, that she’s okay. The bulwark of dread in my gut, preparing me for the worst, refuses to dissipate, even with the proof right in front of my eyes.
I was so sure …
Just take the win, Jocasta. Your gut was wrong this time. Be grateful.
Chessa nods rapidly. “Good, good.”
But then she hesitates. “Is it true that … that Lennie is dead?” Her brows draw together, creasing her forehead. “I bumped into Kate Thomas when I tried to get back into Branwick.”
Kate. That was her name, the runner who had called the police. I knew I recognized her.
I drew in a deep breath. “I … Yeah.” A flood of images—Lennie snuggled up against Devon last night, Lennie’s head twisted at that strange angle, her ankle boot getting soaked in the freezing rain—press forward to drown me, and I shake my head against them.
“Lennie was … Kate saw her first. On the ground. Under our window.” I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
“What was she doing there?” Chessa asks, but more to herself than the rest of us.
“When Kate screamed, I heard it and looked out the window and—”
“Could we perhaps move this conversation inside?” Carter speaks up, reminding us of his presence. “Jocasta is shivering again.”
“I’m fine,” I say. But it’s hard to make that sound convincing when your teeth are chattering.